Surprise
by Carole
Summary: In a world torn by hatred, mistrust and war, Methos suddenly finds the conflict too close for comfort. HL/Wars of Light and Shadow (but you don't have to be familar with the second)
1. Part 1

Title: Surprise  
Author: Carole  
Email Address: kronos999@yahoo.ca  
  
Pairings: None  
Rating: Um... PG13   
Fandom/Crossover: HL/Wars of Light and Shadow  
Characters: Methos Dakar OC's  
  
Archive: If you want it, just ask me. I'll say yes.  
Feedback: Please.  
Discussion: Sure, why not.  
  
Warnings: Some violence and a bit dark.  
  
Summary: In a world torn by hatred, mistrust and war,  
a certain old immortal suddenly finds the conflict too  
close for comfort.  
  
Disclaimer : Not mine. Never will be mine. A girl can  
dream, right? Athera belongs to Janny Wurts and Methos  
to R:P/D. I could never be as creative as Janny. Go,  
read her wonderful books.  
  
Notes : Thanks to tmelange for going over this. You're  
wonderful. All remaining mistakes are my own. It  
should be understandable to those unfamiliar to the  
series. This was originally written several years ago  
just after "Fugitive Prince" came out. I rewrote it,  
but I have not changed most of the content, so there  
may be some differences between this and later books.  
I don't know where this actually fits in the timeline.  
  
  
Wars of Light and Shadow :   
  
These are a series of fantasy novels by Janny Wurts.  
Basically, the world of Athera has been shrouded by a  
mist wraith of displaced souls for centuries. Two  
half-brothers are exiled from their own world disperse  
it with their inborn magic, but it curses them to hate  
each other as revenge. This escalates hatreds into  
outright warfare.   
  
Dakar is the apprentice of Asandir, a Sorcerer of the  
Fellowship of Seven, who were the ones who negotiated  
to allow refuge for humanity on Athera. He sometimes  
has clairvoyant episodes which is why he is referred  
to as the Mad Prophet. He also tends to frequent  
taverns.  
  
For a bit better summary, visit the author's site   
( http://www.paravia.com/JannyWurts/ ) or, better yet,  
read the books.   
  
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Surprise   
by Carole  
A Highlander/Wars of Light and Shadow Crossover  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Part 1/2  
  
The tavern was dingy and smelled of stale sweat, beer  
and burned meat compliments of the incompetent cook in  
the back room. Not that the inhabitants cared what the  
food tasted like since most were there to drink -- at  
least this late at night. Dakar stared into his  
mournfully empty mug, vainly hoping that more ale  
would appear in the bottom of it. *Too bad  
spellbinders can't magic beer out of thin air,* he  
sighed to himself, though the lack of such a talent  
was probably a blessing. Otherwise, the world would  
have had to put up with a permanently incapacitated  
Mad Prophet, instead of only a usually drunk one. His  
drinking companion noticed his sad contemplation.  
  
"Emptied it again, have you? You know the only way to  
get more is to buy some. Staring at it won't help."  
  
Dakar glared at the hawk-nosed man next to him, who  
merely grinned back in response. Some people had no  
respect. It was worse when they were right, and he  
mentally attempted to weigh his purse against the  
cost. Of course, this attempt was doomed to failure by  
the amount of the stuff he'd already consumed. He  
shrugged and waved the barmaid over, a lovely girl  
with big hips, large breasts and no brains. With his  
cup again brimming with the frothy liquid, he turned  
{again} to his neighbour, a minstrel and teller of  
tales in taverns such as this one. The man --Allivar  
he'd said his name was -- had already spent several  
hours relating to the patrons of the establishment  
news from the west. Everyone had been eager to hear  
word of Prince Lysaer. In some ways it was vaguely  
sickening, despite the fact that Dakar had once  
considered Lysaer a friend, when you knew the other  
side of the story. For years he'd considered Arithon  
the monster that the Prince of Light had proclaimed  
him, until a foray in the man's mind had made him  
realize that Arithon was not so much a villain as a  
man caught in desperate circumstances.  
  
"You look deep in thought there friend. Care to  
share?"  
  
Dakar chuckled. This was not nearly so subtle as some  
of Allivar's earlier attempts to gain information,  
especially before he'd realized that the man knew who  
he was. "Not worth sharing," he said, which was  
certainly very true. His thoughts were best kept to  
himself if he didn't want to be executed as a minion  
of the Shadow Master. Even if he did suspect that  
Allivar was a sympathizer -- after all, how else had  
he been recognized -- there was a possibility that  
they could be overheard. Being burned at the stake  
would be a very unpleasant way to end this fairly  
pleasant night.  
  
"Well, if you won't share, then I guess I'll have to.  
They don't call me a teller of tales for nothing."  
  
***  
  
"I was innocent. I even helpfully pointed out the real  
culprit. Was it my fault he happened to be prominent  
in the community?" The dark haired man blinked his  
eyes in the imitation of innocence. "Fortunately,  
their locks didn't work very well."  
  
Dakar shook his head at the man's antics. There was no  
way that the event in question had actually occurred.  
"Aren't you a little worried about being caught  
again?" he asked.  
  
Allivar opened his mouth to answer, the wicked grin in  
his eyes meaning that he had a target, but suddenly  
his back straightened almost imperceptibly and he shut  
his mouth, his eyes going blank and cold.  
  
The Mad Prophet glanced around. "What is it?"  
  
The door opened to admit three men dressed in the  
livery of the warriors of Light.   
  
"Sunwheelers," he hissed under his breath.  
  
Dakar looked back at Allivar who was showing no signs  
of distress except that his already pale complexion  
was now nearly white. That, and the fact that he  
didn't seem nearly as intoxicated as he had a moment  
before. It was almost as if he had sensed they were  
there, something that shouldn't have been possible,  
especially since he had his back to the door. The  
spellbinder wasn't really surprised that the minstrel  
wasn't as inebriated as he should have been. After  
all, people had done the same thing before, dousing  
him in beer to gain information. It had been a  
hopeless cause anyway, since Dakar had five centuries  
of carousing behind him and that gave him a certain  
capacity for alcohol that a normal man couldn't match.  
  
Turning again on the pretense of stretching, he  
observed the newcomers. He certainly hoped that, like  
the man beside him, he wouldn't be recognized. It  
would be very unpleasant to be identified as a close  
associate of not just the Clans but the Prince of  
Rathain too. One of the soldiers gazed in his  
direction and the look froze his blood. The soldiers  
was a blond man who seemed to young for the rank  
displayed on his chest. He was obviously looking for  
something specific, and Dakar got the bad feeling that  
the 'something' that the soldier was looking for was  
in his direction.  
  
*I've got to get out of here.* Of course, a man  
leaving alone just when the Sunwheelers showed up  
might be a bit suspicious. He thought for a minute. A  
person with a companion --a drunk one at that -- might  
not attract the same amount of attention. Allivar  
undeniably looked ill. This might be the perfect  
opportunity.  
  
"You aren't looking so good, friend. Need some help  
outside?" He hoped that Allivar would take up his  
offer and allow him to escape. Already, the drunken  
haze was clearing from his brain. The tavern probably  
watered down their beer to increase profits, or it was  
adrenalin that burned away the haziness.  
  
"Yeah," his companion slurred as he literally stumbled  
to his feet. Dakar grabbed and steadied him, leading  
him outside. The soldiers paid them no mind.  
  
The minstrel straightened as the cool night air  
brushed their faces and glanced back at the tavern. "I  
have a feeling you're leaving town. How would you feel  
about a traveling companion?"  
  
"So, you are afraid of getting caught."  
  
"Something like that."  
  
***  
  
Vague hints of sunlight filtered through the trees  
streaming down on the immortal and his companion.  
Methos wondered what he had been thinking last night  
when he'd rode off with Dakar. It was bad enough that  
even outside of the confines of a town he couldn't  
relax his control of his presence, but it seemed that,  
though he had professed otherwise, the man had  
absolutely no clue where they were headed. *He may be  
able to sniff out the closest tavern, but I'm never  
going to trust his sense of direction about anything  
else again.* He'd hoped that being in the presence of  
the apprentice of one of the Fellowship Sorcerers  
would offer a certain amount of protection.  
  
*I'd be better off on my own,* he concluded. *Maybe  
that stuff really was getting to me.* Well, too late  
to help it now. He could find his way back to town  
well enough, but that wasn't somewhere he really  
wanted to be, especially with an immortal Sunwheeler  
running around. *I wonder how he hasn't gotten caught  
by their group of witch-hunters yet? It wasn't like he  
was trying to hide. Then again, he's young and doesn't  
have enough power to really distinguish him at a  
distance from anyone else.* There was no way to  
confirm his theory, since the controls he imposed on  
himself to avoid detection in this world full of  
witches and sorcerers tended to blur his quickening's  
own perceptions. *Hmmmm... Would Dakar even notice if  
I wasn't shielded? He seems to be babbling on about  
everything else that I don't think he's paying  
attention to what's right in front of his nose,*  
Methos thought with a grin. If he had known, Methos  
would have agreed with Asandir's sentiment about  
relying on Dakar's powers of observation. *I don't see  
how he can keep going on with all he had to drink last  
night.* Then again, the man was a few hundred years  
old and he hadn't seemed that drunk. Methos himself  
had a certain amount of difficulty actually managing a  
good drunk, so it might be some of the same.  
  
"...so he had me map out a maze between grains of  
salt. Salt! Took me nearly a week..."  
  
Methos snorted. Despite his protestations to the  
contrary, Dakar probably deserved Asandir's various  
punishments. *How anyone could put up with this man  
for five continuous centuries is something I don't  
think I'll ever understand.* The Mad Prophet didn't  
even seem to notice his distraction so he tuned the  
droning voice into the background, only listening with  
half an ear for anything important or even vaguely  
interesting, since it seemed Dakar was going to avoid  
recent events of, say, the last few decades. And he  
knew quite a bit about what happened before that.  
After all, he had been there.  
  
It was actually turning out to be a fairly pleasant  
day and, if it wasn't for the circumstances, he was  
fairly sure he would be enjoying the ride. Though what  
little he could see of the sky was clouded, the day  
was fairly warm and the occasional breaks of light  
that filtered through the trees promised fair weather  
that afternoon. If Methos were to be honest with  
himself, however, it wasn't the company that had him  
down. It was the certainty that the man he'd  
deliberately left behind in town last night would find  
him. As he'd let Dakar drag him outside, he'd managed  
to catch a glimpse of his hunter's face, which would  
have been handsome save for the too small nose and too  
wide brow. It was a face that passed unnoticed in a  
crowd, much like his own face, but was much too  
familiar for him not to recognize. After all, he had  
killed the man once already.  
  
A birdcall echoed through the trees, and shivers made  
their way up his spine. Something about it was wrong  
and he could practically feel eyes boring into the  
back of his neck unpleasantly. He wished he could  
afford to extend his senses, picking apart the energy  
in the woods with his quickening, but letting the  
Fellowship know about immortals at this late date was  
not something he wanted to be personally responsible  
for.   
  
For several minutes, he strained his physical senses  
instead, while trying to remain calm so as not to  
alert any of the watchers that he was aware of their  
presence. It just might be his imagination. He'd been  
accused of being paranoid even back on Earth, and that  
tendency had just strengthened with time. Despite his  
well-honed sense of paranoia, nothing alerted him to  
the presence of anything extraordinary except for the  
hairs crawling up the back of his neck.  
  
His horse sensed his tension and shifted nervously to  
the side, bumping him into Dakar. The Mad Prophet  
glared at him. The immortal looked at him and shrugged  
apologetically.  
  
"Sorry," he murmured as something caught his eye. Over  
the other man's shoulder, sunlight broke through the  
dissipating cloud cover, reflecting brightly off of an  
object in the dense undergrowth beyond the trail.  
  
*Metal.* The leaves shifted slightly. He had been  
right, there was someone out there. The birdcall had  
probably been a scout warning of incoming travellers.  
*I'm as blind as Dakar. I should have realized it  
sooner.* He turned again to face forward, deliberately  
appearing to not search to see how many people there  
were hidden in the trees. *Perhaps they'll just let us  
pass by.* If they were bandits, he doubted it. To  
them, the horses alone would be worth pressing an  
attack. Bandits, however, he could deal with since it  
was unlikely that, even if they did incapacitate him,  
they would cut off his head. Dakar was also a  
spellbinder, apprentice to a Fellowship Sorcerer. He  
hoped that Dakar was not as oblivious as he seemed,  
but, like him, was deliberately ignoring the warning  
signs so as not to alert anyone that he knew they were  
there.  
  
A schnick came from his right. *Great, we're  
surrounded.* This was not a surprise, but he'd been  
hoping that whomever was out there was an idiot. It  
was probably someone loading a crossbow, something  
that did not give him a great deal of confidence. A  
sword against hidden archers was never a winning  
equation, at least if you were the swordsman.  
  
"Stop where you are." The voice was authoritative, as  
only a man knowing he could sign your death warrant  
could be. But it was a voice that gave hope, since if  
they were bandits just wanting the horses, they  
probably would have just fired at them. In fact, there  
was something vaguely familiar about it.  
  
*Unless their archer isn't any good, or they want to  
steel our clothes as well as the rest of our  
possessions without covering them in blood.* It was  
times like this that Methos hated being a pessimist.  
Still, they would have a chance to defend themselves.  
*Or they aren't just bandits, but clansmen, which  
would explain the stealth.* It had been thousands of  
years of instincts that had provided him with the real  
warning, not any real carelessness on their part. *If  
they are clan, they might recognize Dakar.* That would  
prevent a certain amount of unpleasantness. It was too  
much to hope for that they would recognize him too.  
  
Dakar was glancing around, looking for the source of  
the voice. Methos ignored him and brought his horse  
to a halt. It fidgeted under him but stood relatively  
still. His companion did the same. It wasn't like they  
had very much choice.  
  
"Well, it's nice to see you, Old Man."  
  
Methos blinked in surprise, then smiled. He'd known  
he'd heard that voice somewhere before, and there were  
very few about these days who would call him "old" who  
wasn't one of his kind. In fact, there was only one he  
could think of.  
  
"Arin?" It was both a question and an exclamation.   
  
There was a low, masculine chuckle. "The very same."  
Tension bled away from the whole area, and things that  
appeared to be part of the landscape revealed  
themselves to be anything but. One such thing  
transformed itself into a blond man with broad  
shoulders and a scar across one cheek as a man stepped  
onto the trail. "We always seem to run into each  
other, don't we, Allivar?" There was no particular  
emphasis on the name, though the clansman knew it was  
a false one. After all, he'd helped Methos choose it  
to go with his current persona.  
  
***  
  
The voice had taken Dakar by surprise. He'd felt no  
threat from the surrounding area, being more concerned  
with trying to figure out where he was going to be  
heading once he got out of these blasted trees. Too  
many of his five hundred years had been spent  
travelling.  
  
It was almost eerie to watch the clansmen suddenly  
emerge like shades. Allivar practically leapt off his  
horse, embracing the approaching leader -- whose name  
was apparently Arin -- in a rough hug.  
  
The Mad Prophet took in the group of men and women,  
many still standing within the trees but not  
concealing their presence. *There isn't that many of  
them.* There were perhaps ten souls in all, a ragtag  
group in browns and greens. They were not what most  
people would have pictured as nobles and royalty,  
though they were that -- they were all from families  
selected for their ability to stand in the presence of  
Paravians.  
  
A whisper of movement at his side jerked him back to  
himself. "Fallen in with bad company, Prophet?" Arin  
asked, grinning. "I'm sure you've noticed by now that  
Allivar attracts it like iron does a magnet." He  
gestured with his chin towards the minstrel. The  
minstrel snorted indignantly and muttered something  
that sounded suspiciously like, "That was your fault  
as much as mine."  
  
"I wouldn't know. We only just met," he replied,  
regaining his composure. The spellbinder didn't  
recognize Arin, but that wasn't surprising, knowing  
his own powers of observation. Though the clans had  
diminished in size, he couldn't be expected to know  
all of them. *Well, he does seem to know who I am, and  
Allivar as well.* It wasn't that surprising that a  
travelling minstrel was on good relations with the  
clans, or at least one who dared travel far, for fear  
of going through their territories. *I'll have to ask  
Allivar later,* he thought, curious as to how they had  
met.   
  
***  
  
The promised sun had had a few brief hours of glory in  
only mildly cloudy skies, but now the heavens were  
beginning to take on the golden glow of early evening  
as Athera spun steadily onward. The group had  
carefully hidden their trail, moving away from the  
road so [as] not to be found by any who passed by.  
Strangely, even the beasts had cooperated in this  
effort, even Dakar's usually stubborn animal.  
  
"Actually, we were nervous about being found," Arin  
was saying. He was sitting next to Methos, turning a  
pebble over in between his thumb and middle finger.  
The immortal sprawled out with his back to a large  
oak, looking to all the world like he was seated on a  
comfortable couch instead of hard ground covered in  
rocks and roots. Arin couldn't help but wonder at it.  
"Seeing anyone was a real shock. But it was just two  
of you so we figured it was a chance come and hoped  
you'd go by without noticing us. Then, of course, your  
distinctive beak gave you away." Eyes above said  
projection glared. "Couldn't pass up the opportunity  
to see you. It's been a year."  
  
"My nose isn't that big."  
  
"I never said it was. It's certainly recognizable,  
though." The big man grinned at his leaner compatriot.  
"You must be slipping, or you are older than I  
thought. Your brains are starting to slip. You didn't  
notice us at all."  
  
Methos raised a single eyebrow skilfully. "Who says I  
didn't notice? I was hoping if you didn't know that we  
knew you were there..." He concluded the sentence with  
a shrug.  
  
Arin laughed and looked over to where Dakar had dozed  
off, snoring lightly. They had been travelling most of  
the previous night so the man had a reason to be  
tired. "You may have noticed, but I don't think I'll  
ever forget the look on that man's face when I told  
him to halt. Good thing our lord knows how to take  
care of himself if *that* man was supposed to be his  
protector," said Arin, referring to Dakar's former  
assignment to protect Arithon, Prince of Rathain.  
  
"Well, I almost didn't notice you myself. Just had a  
feeling someone was watching me, and bad luck on your  
part."  
  
"How did you know?" There was no humour in his  
questioning this time because being found was a matter  
of life or death.  
  
Methos answered just as seriously. "To my left, just  
ahead of that scared maple, I saw something metal,  
though I might have missed it if I hadn't had that  
feeling."  
  
"Sainfiar." Arin nodded to himself. "I'll have to talk  
with him. We can't afford such mistakes." That it was  
necessary was a grim reminder of the times they lived  
in. Methos could remember before the clans had been  
outcast, before the kings had been thrown down and  
those still loyal to them hunted like animals for the  
bounties on their heads. Since the massacre at Etarra,  
this had only intensified.  
  
A twig snapped behind them, probably as a courtesy to  
warn of the approaching person. Methos looked up to  
see a woman of about thirty-five with close-cropped  
hair that would have been brown if the light was  
better. Her eyes sparkled despite the dimness, and she  
smiled. Her name was Taria, if he remembered  
correctly.  
  
"Enough whispering about us behind our backs, Arin.  
You two have been talking since we got here and you  
promised to tell us how you met this handsome fellow."  
  
She chuckled as Methos attempted his best courtly bow  
from his position on the ground.  
  
"Well, I guess I have no choice." Arin rose to his  
feet. "So, my friend, shall you tell or shall I?"  
  
"Well..."  
  
"Humph... I'd better. I know you for the teller of  
*tall* tales you are. If they want the real story  
they're going to hear it from me," Arin said, his  
joking betraying his reluctance, but he knew that  
Methos would want to talk about it even less than he.  
There were bad memories there for both of them.  
  
***  
  
Methos remembered. Four years previously, he had gone  
by the name of Valith, a healer in the small town of  
Eishlier. It was fairly typical as small towns go, but  
he was happy there, sharing his skills as a doctor.  
There had been a very handsome widow named Laere who  
had been happily receiving his attentions. It was the  
sort of place he could lose himself in for a decade,  
leaving only when his lack of aging made it necessary.  
In an age of witch-hunts, an immortal could not remain  
in a place for very long, no matter his skill at  
seeming to grow older. As always happened] when he  
managed to achieve contentment and a semblance of  
normalcy, something went wrong.  
  
It had been a very hard day, but that did not excuse  
his actions. He had only himself to blame for what  
made that day much worse.  
  
*If only he had brought her in sooner, she probably  
would have lived.* Despite all of the knowledge at his  
disposal, he'd been unable to save Talien, a  
kind-hearted, if slightly weak-willed woman. "I'll  
have another," was all he said to Elie, the tavern  
wench who looked at him sympathetically. She knew what  
had happened. The entire town knew that Talien hadn't  
made it, thanks to her husband Dorn who thought the  
universal paranoia about witches and sorcerers  
extended to healers as well. He'd waited until her  
death had been inevitable before desperation made him  
reluctantly ask for aid. *If only she had seen me  
before her cut had started to go bad...* Still, "what  
if's" changed nothing. He glared at his cup, which  
mocked him silently.  
  
It was all that gold plated dandy's fault, Lysaer, the  
so-called Prince of Tysan. *If only he knew what he's  
started. It's the inquisition witch-hunts all over  
again.* Except this time real as well as false witches  
were being caught, though both had likely committed no  
crime except having others fear them.   
  
No one remembered those witch-hunts now, though,  
except him. It had been a long time since he'd come  
across another immortal from the Crossing. Even the  
Fellowship of Seven probably didn't have memories  
stretching back that far into Earth's history. It just  
emphasized how alone he was on this world, even more  
so than humanity's previous one.  
  
*Denouncing witches and mages, all because he hates  
his brother Arithon. Setting himself up as a god for  
the ignorant masses to adore, tearing the world apart  
with civil war, introducing slavery to a world where  
it has been forbidden since humanity came here. The  
bastard's practically a mage himself.* If he had been  
speaking aloud, the final sentence would have been a  
low growl. That was the only way to explain his feats,  
for Methos knew that Lysaer was no god, nor  
incarnation of one.  
  
"May he get what he deserves." Toasting the empty  
chair across the table, he emptied his mug and  
whispered, "May a clan vengeance arrow find its way  
into that cold little heart."  
  
*And may it happen soon, by Ath and every other god  
I've ever heard of, before things get any worse.*  
  
He wondered again if breaking the covenant with the  
Paravians could allow the Fellowship to interfere,  
because at the rate things were going, they might have  
to destroy humanity instead. The worst part was that  
the man was so charismatic because he thought he was  
doing the right thing.  
  
*So did Hitler. And remember what they did to you in  
those camps when they found you couldn't die.* He  
shivered, despite the heat. There were some things  
about Earth he did not miss at all.   
  
*I don't know if it can be stopped. So many hate  
Arithon now for the deaths of family and friends.* He,  
too, had lost some he knew, full of righteous fury  
against the Shadow Master who marched at Lysaer's  
command and died. They hadn't listened to him either  
when he told them not to go. The outcome had not been  
surprising.  
  
The rest of the day was a blur of drink, misery and  
anger. Though he was happy in Eishlier, the depression  
that had driven him there was back. A man was only  
supposed to live so long, to lose so many people. He  
would not snap like he had once before and turn into a  
sociopathic mass murderer. Instead, he drank and  
ranted to himself, and when he'd finally saturated  
himself with more alcohol than even an immortal  
constitution could take, to any who would listen.  
There had not been many, since a group of Sunwheelers  
with a group of captured clansmen were passing through  
the town and had there been, he may have had warning.  
But Methos had not known about them until it was too  
late. If he had, he would not have voiced his thoughts  
out loud even in his inebriated state.   
  
The villagers were used to his political beliefs, many  
having a mild taint of various gifts themselves,  
though there were no true witches among them. They,  
too, had reason to fear Lysaer. But Sunwheelers are  
much less forgiving about foolish words than friends  
and neighbours who owe you their lives and have  
reasons of their own for agreeing with you.  
  
A pair of men who were just coming off duty walked in  
at just the wrong moment and heard him insult their  
dear Lord of Light. Elie had tried to explain that he  
had just lost a patient because of the rabid fear some  
people now had in healers, that he was drunk, that he  
didn't mean it. They hadn't listened. Since a dead man  
is worth nothing, they'd simply added him to their  
collection of slaves saying that he was lucky and that  
men had been executed for less. He would have  
preferred execution. Slavery he knew all too well.  
  
***  
  
Days later, exhausted from the forced march and the  
chains that pulled on him, Methos still searched for a  
means to end his misery. If he could but kill himself,  
his body would be left for the scavengers and he'd be  
free. No such opportunity presented itself. It was  
obvious that his captors were prepared in case the  
prisoners considered suicide. Methos wondered why they  
bothered, they were too proud to even consider the  
option. The only suicide they'd attempt was to try to  
kill the Sunwheelers knowing that they would loses,  
and so far, that hadn't happened. The dangers of  
attempting to take advantage of his immortal healing  
to free himself stopped him from self-mutilation.  
Choosing between slavery with the chance of escape and  
being tortured and burned at the stake wasn't a  
pleasant choice, but he knew which he'd pick.  
  
They arrived in the cities sooner than he had  
expected. Still, Methos was now the owner of a mangy  
beard, decrepit clothing and a limp in his right leg  
that had not been given a chance to heal properly  
since he'd twisted it in a hole in the road. The bones  
would probably have to be re[-]broken when he had the  
chance.  
  
His fellow captives ignored the jeers and the rocks  
thrown by children and adults alike. There was no  
point in getting angry, it would stop nothing, and  
this was better than walking through some of the  
places they had had to march since he'd been acquired.  
It was actually nice not to worry about another broken  
ankle, for this road was well cared for.  
  
He winced as the pain of a well aimed stone hit him in  
the arm, but did not search for the culprit. Soon, no  
doubt, everyone would go about their business. This  
type of thing had become almost a common sight.  
  
The crisp city Sunwheelers, untouched by dust and  
grime that dared cover even their recently arrived  
fellows, joined the grim procession.  
  
"We need replacements for one of his Highnesses ships.  
Fever outbreak took out a third of the rowers. We've  
been waiting for you to get in."  
  
There were the bark of commands and the first few rows  
of men were led off in the direction of the docks.  
Thus, Methos found himself on board one of Lysaer's  
galleys, something that his lean frame was not suited  
for, but he adapted quickly enough, the unpleasant  
scents of his confinement becoming ingrained on his  
senses, as did the grunts of overworked and abused  
men.  
  
And so his existence continued for far too long. The  
drone of days and nights blurred together, the  
creaking of the ship, the motion of the waves and the  
effort he and his rowing-mate, a big blond man by the  
name of Arin, put towards reluctantly serving the  
master of these ships, Lysaer.  
  
The opportunity finally arrived. It was not so much an  
opportunity as an apathy towards the consequences of  
his actions. The plan was simple, as such desperate  
plans often were. Chains were not that much of an  
obstacle to one who could heal from anything. Once  
they'd been dealt with, kill as many men as possible  
and throw himself overboard. If he died instead, they  
would have to the same thing with his body anyway and  
were not likely to wait until he could return from  
death to prevent disease from spreading among the  
rowers and the crew. He'd come to the conclusion that  
drifting towards shore for the next few centuries was  
preferable to his current existence, though he doubted  
he would need to.  
  
They were resting. No one could continue to row  
continuously, no matter how strong they were and  
Methos guessed that they were waiting for men on the  
coast as they searched for Arithon. The implements of  
his imprisonment were the tool of his escape. Gritting  
his teeth, he smashed down the metal manacles onto his  
left hand, crushing bone and mangling flesh.  
  
Arin gasped as he pulled the now useless appendage  
free of its confinement, staring at him with  
astonishment. Nothing but a low grunt passed his lips  
from the pain. The clansman could do nothing but  
watch, his look of surprise and mild horror turning to  
something else as bones reset themselves in the proper  
positions, some pulling back from where they had poked  
through skin. He flexed his hand, which was once again  
whole, and smiled grimly.  
  
The thump of solid footsteps on wood interrupted him  
from freeing his other hand.  
  
"What's going on here?" Despite his vocal silence, his  
actions seemed to have attracted attention. The slave  
master didn't notice until it was too late that one of  
Methos' hands was free.  
  
Luck was with him, fickle Fate who had landed him in  
this position in the first place. With a strong tug he  
pulled the surprised man into the pit with him,  
crashing him into Arin, who had gotten over his  
astonishment and gripped him tightly. Methos took in  
the man's struggling and blessed the man's foolishness  
in carrying a weapon. His free left hand gripped the  
man's dagger and in a casual blow he brought it across  
the slaver's throat. Warmth spurted into his face and  
into his mouth. He swallowed the blood convulsively  
and resisted the urge to laugh at the man's gurgling  
cry for help. He should have done this sooner.  
  
Without sparing a glance of thanks for his companion,  
he grabbed for the keys.  
  
//Clack. Snick.//  
  
He was free. Now he grinned, holding the knife in one  
bloody hand and tossing the keys of Arin with the  
other. Slipping slightly as he pulled himself onto the  
walkway, he rushed forward into the confused soldiers  
who speed down from above.  
  
There was the swelling roar of hope and yells of freed  
prisoners but he ignored it all, focussing instead on  
the armed man before him. Reflexes dulled from their  
previous exactness were still enough to dodge the  
swing of the man's sword and plunge the dagger into  
his gut, cutting upwards with glee.  
  
He went over the fallen body after grabbing the sword  
to give him an extended reach, a demon drenched in  
blood with jovial sparkling eyes. There were still to  
many of them for even one who had once gone by the  
name Death to take, but he would try anyway.  
  
He squared off against three, all armed and decent  
swordsmen. A slip on the bloody ground beneath his  
feet and one took advantage of it, hitting him on his  
side though he managed to dodge the majority of the  
blow. Hissing in pain, he retreated, crouching and  
holding his wound. He was in trouble.  
  
A shape shifted behind his adversaries. Almost in slow  
motion, one's eyes rolled up in his head as he  
collapsed to the wood below. The two remaining turned  
instinctively to this new dangerous threat, Arin, who  
was bleeding for a slash on his face. This was a  
mistake, and Death struck, severing the spine of one  
and nearly beheading the other.  
  
He was no longer fighting alone. With the keys passing  
among the prisoners, former masters were laid low by  
those they'd abused and hunted for years. He licked  
his lips, tasting the familiar coppery taste of blood  
and gestured with his eyes, all the words necessary in  
such circumstances between two hunters. There was more  
prey to be found.  
  
Surprise and desperation won out over Lysaer's men.  
Their golden god was not there to answer their prayers  
for protection. Some slaves had died, but they hadn't  
realized what has happening until it was too late.  
Most of the soldiers had not been onboard, but instead  
scowering the mainland for whatever it was they were  
searching for. The fighters that returned were cut  
down, having not suspected anything amiss.  
  
No one had questioned how he had come through  
apparently unscathed, though he had truly sustained  
nearly fatal wounds. With a brisk voice he ordered the  
survivors to search for the supplies left by the  
ship's healer. There were many others with injuries  
that, unlike him, needed help.  
  
***  
  
Arin brushed his hand against his stitched cheek and  
winced.  
  
"It could have been worse," Methos said. "If his reach  
had been a bit longer, you'd be missing the top half  
of your head."  
  
"I know."  
  
The forest around them ignored the two men. As a  
group, they had split up to avoid being caught and  
were travelling by land since they doubted they could  
sail the ship close enough to shore to find their  
location without being found by Lysaer's navy. Framed  
by a background of emerald green, the taller, bulkier  
man turned towards him.  
  
"There's been something I've wanted to ask you."  
  
Methos sighed. He could already sense the question  
that the man desired to ask.  
  
"I may have had a close shave, but that one bastard  
skewered you. Then, you don't need any treatment at  
all. And what about your hand?"  
  
Eyes trailed down to glance at the appendage, which  
was no worse for wear.  
  
Methos had been dreading these sorts of questions. All  
the possible lies flew out the proverbial window. He  
was a very good liar, but in this case, there was no  
real reason to avoid the truth. Why not tell him,  
after all. Arin was trustworthy, he knew that now  
after several weeks in the man's company after their  
escape and, in a world full of magic, the truth wasn't  
that strange at all.  
  
He glanced up at the sky and closed his eyes.  
  
"You could say I'm a bit older than I look..."  
  
***  
  
"Allivar." Methos tested the name experimentally. Arin  
smiled at him.  
  
"Suits you. A perfect name for both an immortal and a  
minstrel."  
  
"I don't know. But I guess Bob would stand out a bit  
too much."  
  
His companion frowned. "Bob, what kind of name is  
that?"  
  
Methos chuckled. "Short for Robert. That's what I  
meant. No one uses that sort of thing anymore. Its  
always these Paravian based names. Well, Allivar, the  
preserver of memory. Why not? I've had worse."  
  
"Bob is definitely worse."  
  
"No, I've never gone by Bob. Mathew, now, or Adam, on  
the other hand..."  
  
***  
  
Methos brought himself back to the present. He and  
Arin had run into each other quite a few times since  
then. Purposely setting himself up in places where  
soldiers would talk, he could bring warning to others.  
It wasn't precisely spying, but it served its purpose.  
  
Taria was looking at him respectfully, and Methos  
could see that Arin had just finished talking, no  
doubt embellishing the story, or perhaps not. All that  
was certain was that his immortality was not  
mentioned. Dakar was also giving him a look of  
disbelief, probably wondering what else his travelling  
companion was capable of.  
  
"Fell asleep, did you, Old Man?" Arin's voice came to  
his ear. "I hear that happens often to people your  
age."  
  
"No," he smiled. "I was just thinking. Sorry I missed  
the story."  
  
"You didn't miss it. I know what you were thinking  
about. I could probably wager a significant amount on  
the fact that, while you may not have heard a word I  
said, you certainly were getting the full account, and  
come away a lot better for my money."  
  
"True enough. That's why I know better than to wager  
on anything with you. I'd become a lot poorer rather  
quickly."  
  
"Get some sleep, Allivar. We have people standing  
watch."  
  
Methos yawned. "All the convincing I need."  
  
***  
  
MacLeod had often accused him of not being a morning  
person. Despite that, he awakened with his other  
companions, with the sole exception of Dakar. The Mad  
Prophet remained dead to the world.  
  
He hadn't seen the Highlander in centuries, ever since  
the closing of the Worldsend Gates. He wondered how  
the man was faring.  
  
"Well, it's been nice to see you again."  
  
Arin winked at him. "Until next time."  
  
"Yes, until then, stay out of trouble." He paused a  
moment. "Be careful, kid."  
  
"Yare, yare. I always am. Say goodbye to your fellow  
traveller for me."  
  
And with that the clansmen vanished into the morning  
mist, blending into the forest. Methos watched Dakar  
snore on, oblivious.  
  
"Stay well, my friend."  
  
***  
  
CONT Part 2... 


	2. Part 2

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Surprise   
by Carole  
A Highlander/Wars of Light and Shadow Crossover  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
See part 1 for disclaimer.  
  
Part 2/2  
  
Dakar wiped the sleep out of his eyes to find Allivar  
watching him, and the rest of the woods disserted.  
He'd slept poorly, trying to associate the killer and  
healer of Arin's story with the man who was now  
watching him. He gave up. *Doesn't matter anyway.  
We'll be parting company soon. What I'd love to know  
was how he got out of those chains in the first place,  
that could definitely be useful.*  
  
"Awake are we?" The minstrel was much too cheerful.  
  
"Go away," he muttered. "It can't be morning yet."  
  
"Well, you got that half right. You've just mixed up  
the early part. Morning has come and gone."  
  
"What...?"  
  
Allivar rose to his feet and stretched. "I'd guess  
it's about one or so."  
  
Dakar's eyebrows raised. "What?!? Why didn't you get  
me up?" Those Sunwheelers could have caught up to them  
with all the time they'd spent here.  
  
"I tried. Gave up eventually. It isn't my fault you're  
such a sound sleeper. Don't worry. Everything's  
packed. I just wanted to wait until you ate before I  
saddled the horses." Dakar glared and the man  
continued, "I figured we were safer here anyway.  
Hopefully they'll have passed us by by now."  
  
Muttering unsavoury things about the minstrel,  
mornings and the world in general, Dakar dragged  
himself to his feet and sniffed suspiciously at the  
rations Allivar placed before him.  
  
"Did you say something?" That voice again. Now that he  
was more awake, he could recognize the inflection. The  
man was laughing at him.   
  
"No," he growled back. The man was starting to remind  
him suspiciously of Arithon.  
  
He winced, remembering how the man had fooled him for  
months with those illusions of his. Looking at this  
man, he knew that this wasn't the case this time.  
Something itched at him, though, something was wrong.  
*Scars… he has no scars.* If the tale Arin told was  
true, that shouldn't be the case, and this man, unlike  
Arithon, did not purposely wear clothing to disguise  
such things. *Maybe I'm wrong. I probably just have to  
get closer to see them. they fade with time, after  
all.*  
  
***  
  
They had been travelling for several hours now, and  
Dakar paid more attention to his surroundings this  
time. He wouldn't be caught off guard again. All the  
attention he could spare, however, was on Allivar. It  
did nothing to relieve his suspicions from that  
morning, though there was nothing to arouse them  
either.  
  
There was no doubt in his mind that the minstrel knew  
how to use the blade he was carrying. A real horseman  
too, but that was expected from all the travelling he  
did. Allivar himself, however, seemed different than  
he had the day before. The way he held himself, the  
set of his jaw was harder, not as joking. *Masks,* he  
realized. *This man views the word behind masks, a  
different one for each occasion.*  
  
Whether it was a true revelation or just paranoia, he  
couldn't tell, but the thought was unsettling. Dakar  
knew himself to be a bad judge of character, so hoped  
for the best. Such revelations and snap judgements  
were not to be trusted.  
  
He finally gave up trying to read the man. It was  
merely driving him crazy and paid more attention to  
where his horse was placing its feet. Allivar's sudden  
halt caused his horse to shy back. He looked at the  
tall man suspiciously and found a rock hard mask in  
place, eyes glittering like dark jewels.  
  
***  
  
*Blood.* Methos tested the air around him. *I smell  
blood.* That would explain his horse's nervousness.  
*This is no rabbit, not even a stag. Its strong enough  
that I can notice it, there's too much.* A horrible  
premonition surfaced and he shivered, narrowing his  
eyes.  
  
He dismounted, handing his reigns to the confused Mad  
Prophet. Feet making no sound on the trail, he drifted  
like a ghost forward into the woods, turning once to  
ask Dakar to wait, before making his way into the  
undergrowth. A sense of self preservation told him  
that forewarned was forearmed, but that feeling was  
back behind his eyes, and his heart clinched. The  
immortal searched for the best path over the rocky,  
overgrown hill ahead, and scrambled up. He knew that  
whatever he wanted to know lay on the other side.  
  
There was no sound but the shifting of wind among the  
branches. Digging his hands into stone, he propelled  
himself forward, branches scratching at his face and  
tearing his hair. Pulling himself behind a boulder, to  
not be seen by those on the other side, he did his  
best to blend in with his surroundings and looked  
down.  
  
Methos, who had seen and caused more bloodshed than  
any other man he knew, retched. Inside, something  
snapped as Arin's lifeless eyes stared up at him  
across the distance, tongue lolling out of his mouth  
from his severed head.  
  
Taria was face down, almost peaceful, but the blood  
around her destroyed the illusion. Others lay  
scattered about, some Sunwheelers, some clan]bred, but  
there was no doubt. The small troop had fought hard,  
and died for it, overwhelmed by the larger force of  
Sunwheelers -- Sunwheelers who had probably been  
searching for him.  
  
He lowered his lids against the scene, turned away and  
spit the fowl taste out of his mouth. The black fire  
of anger welled up within, but it was a cold fire,  
Arctic ice, As cold as a blade and twice as deadly.  
Death walked away back to his horse. There were things  
he needed to do.  
  
***  
  
"We go this way."   
  
Dakar jumped at the voice as Allivar came out of the  
woods.   
  
"I think I found a way for the horses." His face was  
cold and eyes stony. There was no inflection.  
  
"What is it?" he asked nervously. There was no reply,  
simply an empty glance that left Dakar shivering. This  
was the capable killer that Arin had spoken of,  
without the healer to temper it.  
  
Knowing that opening his mouth was not the best idea,  
he followed silently, his fear of what was to come  
drowning out his usual protests and whining over the  
annoyances of travelling.  
  
Huffing to himself, he stumbled over roots and  
silently prayed to Ath that the horse would twist its  
leg. He didn't want to have to walk everywhere.  
  
His eyes widened as they came across the last hill. It  
had been a slaughter. Allivar ignored the bodies,  
stepping over them and attempting to keep his mount  
calm, even when he went past Arin's headless corpse.  
He simply continued, walking towards the path the  
Sunwheelers had taken.  
  
This even Dakar would not stomach. "Are you crazy?  
You're going to follow them?" he exclaimed, still  
looking around at the carnage.  
  
Apathy had never been so terrifying, but the new glint  
in those eyes reminded him more of one of the  
Fellowship than a simple mortal.   
  
"Yes." Again, the voice was calm and monotone. "You  
don't have to come if you don't want to, but I have  
something to do."  
  
*He's snapped. Probably planning to die in a suicidal  
attack.*  
  
The man's prey would be easy to follow. they'd been so  
confident that they hadn't bothered to hide their  
trail. He couldn't just let the man kill himself, so  
he followed, though he was quite prepared to run in  
the other direction if something happened. There was  
no way he was going to argue with that face of stone.  
  
*Maybe he'll come out of it.* He snuck a glance over  
at his companion. *Or perhaps not.*  
  
***  
  
Forced to stop, Dakar watched as Allivar cocked his  
head, listening. The Mad Prophet heard nothing, but  
almost reached out with his "other" sense to find what  
was wrong. He never got the chance.  
  
"Stay here." Allivar's voice was still cold and calm.  
There was no thought to following the man, instead, he  
again considered running in the other direction.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
The man's back was to him as he moved forward  
carefully, leaving Dakar behind, and left the question  
unanswered.  
  
For what seemed eternity -- though was closer to a few  
minutes -- Dakar waited. He closed his eyes, cursing  
his lack of practice and patience and reached out yet  
again.  
  
Yells of alarm and then screams jerked him back to the  
physical. They were fairly close by, and he threw  
himself forward, forgetting for an instant that he was  
badly outnumbered and that, if he wanted to prevent  
the minstrel's death, he should have knocked him over  
the head earlier and restrained him until he came to  
his senses.  
  
Burning. Fire. Lightning. He fell to the ground,  
clutching his head as a blast of pure power rippled  
through the air. He couldn't breath.  
  
*Sunwheelers wouldn't have a wizard this powerful.  
Ath, what is that thing?* echoed through his shocked  
mind, and he rose to his feet shakily. Whatever had  
stirred, he didn't want to meet it, but he needed to  
find out what it was to give warning.  
  
Mounts forgotten, he moved forward, crawling to his  
feet and ran. Trees rushed past, Dakar stumbled  
several times, but scrambled to his feet and  
continued. He almost lost his life again, forced to  
jump out of the way to avoid spooked horses.  
  
Then, suddenly, he was there.  
  
How one man could do that much damage, he didn't know.  
There were so many of them, they had to take him down,  
but no blow seemed to touch him, moving through the  
soldiers like Death himself. Others had been trampled  
to death by their own frightened mounts.  
  
He just stood, too stunned to move and ignored by  
those fighting for their lives. One lucky man landed a  
blow that should have gutted this demon, but he smiled  
and ran him threw, the only sign of his injury was the  
arm clutched to his stomach and the slight hunch in  
his shoulders. He watched not the carnage around him,  
but the minstrel. Forcing his mage-sight despite the  
battle and aura of death, he looked. *Ath, no man can  
have an aura like that.* It was like staring at the  
sun and his eyes watered. The rage and hate blurred  
the pure white with shades of red and black, like the  
taint of the fight and deaths seeping into the earth.  
  
"Dharkaron Avenger," he whispered. Allivar was no mere  
man, but something other. There was no chariot, no  
black steeds, but this was him, there was no doubt.  
  
An arrow came from his right, as one clever fellow  
attempted to cut the monster down before it could  
reach him for a distance. It was simply pulled out, as  
if the man felt no pain and still did not slow. He had  
done the impossible, now the few who remained tried to  
run, not attack. How could one fight someone who did  
not stop, no matter the injury?  
  
Now there was only the soft sound of a young man,  
almost a boy, weeping in terror among the dead. He  
stared up at cold golden eyes. For a moment, Dakar  
thought this one would be left to escape as Allivar  
stared at him.  
  
Before he gave him a quick end with a blow to the  
heart. There was silence, and the spellbinder could  
practically feel the dead shades around him despite  
the overwhelming presence of their killer.  
  
Then, it was over. Allivar glanced up at him, and the  
ice shattered. He took a step, and fell to the ground.  
The aura about him vanished, and Dakar concentrated on  
restraining his own sensitivity. The ghosts here would  
not look kindly on either of them.  
  
Like the boy had earlier, the monster that had caused  
this butchery wept among the dead. The wind brought  
his words to Dakar.  
  
"My friend, I told you to be careful."  
  
***  
  
A gasp echoed amid the silence, a sudden intake of  
breath and one of the body's convulsed spasmodically.  
Methos head jerked up, his eyes dry once more. That  
face again greeted him. He knew that face.  
  
//A cry of surprise. A young Sunwheeler cut down in  
confusion. One amidst a sea of others in the struggle  
to be free again.//  
  
It was only two days ago he had found out about that  
man's immortality. If he hadn't been shielding, as was  
his usual habit, he would have finished it then.  
Permanently.  
  
He stood, wiping the blood and tears from his face as  
the other man clawed his way to his feet, waiting.  
  
"You..." It was a growl. "I know you. You killed me on  
board the Maelier." The accusation ignored recent  
events and Dakar's stare at the dead man who had risen  
once again. "I challenge you."  
  
***  
  
He gaped. This was something he had not seen in all  
his years as an apprentice to one of the Fellowship.  
It was possible to stave off death, but not bring true  
bodily resurrection this way.  
  
"I challenge you."  
  
Allivar did not seem surprised. In fact, he looked  
like he had expected these words, whatever they meant.  
The man simply drew his sword, exhausted as he was and  
moved to meet his new opponent.  
  
Dakar suspected that the fight would have been over  
quickly. Fortunately for Allivar, the Sunwheeler was  
not in the best shape himself. Both moved stiffly as  
he watched with a horrible fascination, weaving  
between the bodies at their feet.  
  
That proved to be the end of the fight. The soldier,  
he clothes torn and bloody, misjudged the position of  
one of his former fellows torsos and fell. With one  
blow, Allivar removed both his sword and his arm.   
  
The man fell to the ground, but surprisingly  
maintained consciousness and managed to speak. "Do it,  
but first, tell me who you are."  
  
"No," was the only reply, denying the man his last  
request and, with a twist, Allivar brought his sword  
around with all his remaining strength. Time seemed to  
slow, the head tilting back, hitting the ground before  
the force of the blow knocked what remained of the  
kneeling man sideways to the reddened earth.  
  
It was a low roar that rumbled almost below hearing  
and mist gathered around the form of the fallen man,  
enclosing everything in a vague layer of white and  
blue. It rippled and moved as if drawn by some unseen  
wind, twirling about the only one who remained  
standing besides Dakar.  
  
Fire lashed out, lightning, and the hawk-nosed man  
jerked and screamed, falling to the ground. Like  
vengeance, it was relentless, beating him down. A tree  
crashed down and Dakar jerked back and small fires  
appeared amidst the brush.  
  
It stopped with a whimper from Allivar, who lay  
moaning, no doubt from pain. Still, he managed to gain  
the strength sit as another movement caught Dakar's  
eye. It was the boy, the one who had been crying, who  
was the last to die.  
  
Laughter echoed at his confusion, a cold and bitter  
laughter as the man who had uttered it had been  
earlier. It contained no humour. Those bewildered eyes  
made their way to the one who had extinguished them in  
the first place. There was a twist of a smile to his  
lips when he spoke.  
  
"Surprise." The smile turned into a death's head grin.  
"You're not dead."  
  
~END~  
  
NOTES :   
  
Names have been taken from my attempt at a Paravian  
dictionary. I hope I got these right.  
  
Allivar   
roots:   
alli = to preserve/save avar = memory   
  
Arin  
roots: arin = strong  
  
Eishlier  
roots : eishlier = sheltered place  
  
Elie  
roots : Ummm... I can't find them now. Urg.  
  
Laere  
roots : laere = grace  
  
Sainfiar  
roots : san =black ianfiar = birch  
  
Taria  
roots : taria = knots  
  
Talien  
roots : talien = precious  
  
Valith  
roots : val = straight lith = to keep/nurture/preserve  
  
  
The last line is deliberately the same as Methos told  
Cassandra. It was one of the parts in CaH/Rev68 that  
always struck me, so I decided to use it. 


End file.
